


the tired sunset of our fettered grace

by TableForThree_Archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble, First Time, Harsh Language, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post-Half-Blood Prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-24
Updated: 2009-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-19 02:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4729757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TableForThree_Archivist/pseuds/TableForThree_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world ends and Harry, Ron and Hermione try to keep their psychological shit together. Fail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the tired sunset of our fettered grace

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Jonathan Andrew Sheen, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Table for Three](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Table_for_Three). When traffic and uploads slowed to a trickle, it became difficult to justify the hosting expenses. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in January 2015. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Table for Three collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/triofic/profile).
> 
>  
> 
> Written from the prompt: Friend.

_LOST, have you seen ____?_ is how it starts. And the pompous, golden spellfire of air purifying bubbles as they kill themselves with handshakes and hugs and self-righteous egotisms of _Magic Prevails!_  
  
The British Centre of Magical Disease Control say it's a magically infused mutation of Plague, she thinks- and she'd know - that the CMDC are (most definitely) full of shit. She knows Ebola when she sees it, she'd said. Ordinary, non-magical, muggle Ebola.  
  
She finds their pride amusing.

 

_~_

 

Shes knuckles deep inside herself, turned away from the _oh fucks_ and _yes'_  on the bed beside hers. She isn't ready. They each have their own madness to settle themselves to first, and she isn't quite there yet.  
  
She sucks in deep when she cums.  
  
The Hilton Somewhere (anywhere, nowhere) reeks of ash.

 

~

 

They stop at a cafe somewhere in Newcastle. _Survivor count dwindling_ and _Body burnings_ duet with It's the end of the world as we know it (she'd always liked to hope humanity had a tad more class than that) and Ministry officials appealing for calm.  
  
Harry licks their initials _HRH_ etched red and raw into her forearm (she never did suffer boredom well) and plants a kiss against her forehead. She smiles, a funny sought of a thing. But that's all she can give them.

 

~

 

Theres a field outside of time that's watched her twirl to her own emptiness. Dodging hands only she can see that pop up from below to trip.  
  
She doesn't like to think of the others, resigns herself to the fact that they're gone and crawls in between Harry and Ron in the grass.  
  
They trace her lips and her eyes and the curve of her neck with their fingers. Rest there heads atop her breasts in the sun. They've come to judge well-being by their physical proximity to each other.  
  
The wind whistles through leaves and, thinking King's The Stand, she listens for the walkin' dude.

 

~

 

Music throbs through her innards in the dark of the club, right down to her clit. Shes walled in between Harry (back) and Ron (front) and shes never felt more alive. They're fascinated by her. Her movements, her silence, her insanity, so different from Harry's who's is, again, different from Ron's. They love her like this, _moving_ and _free_ and _crazy_ and _theirs_.  
  
She laughs, delightedly, hysterically, brushing herself against them as they sway. Shes ready.

 

~

 

Harry pushes into Ron as he enters her from behind against the hotel room door. Theres a dead man on the other side, a little way down the hall but thats okay. She has her constants, everyone else can burn.

"Whe're okay," she moans, through the hands and the pleasure and the atrophy. "We'll lock the windows and the doors when the Blackbirds come to ferry us away."

 

~

 

The world ends on a Wednesday.


End file.
